Page 29 of Hard Check

The absence of my response created a small pocket of silence that rippled outward. A few heads turned.

TJ tried again. "Earth to Carver. Is your comeback generator broken this morning?"

I focused on my laces, pulling them tight enough to hurt. "Save your breath for practice, Jameson."

From the corner of my eye, I caught Mercier watching me, his goalie's observant gaze missing nothing. He offered a slight nod—acknowledgment without intrusion—before returning to his meticulous pre-practice routine.

When I finally looked up, Pike stood frozen by the equipment rack, a roll of tape dangling forgotten from his fingers. His forehead creased, eyes narrowed with unmistakable concern.

Coach's whistle pierced the locker room chatter ten minutes later. "Ice in five, gentlemen."

The familiar rhythm of practice should have been comforting—the scrape of blades on fresh ice, the percussive snap of pucks against boards, and the controlled chaos of drills. Instead, each movement was mechanical, emphasizing the disconnection between my body and brain.

Coach barked from the bench. "Carver! Set the screen on the power play!"

I planted myself, bracing as the defenseman attempted to move me. My body performed its assigned task while my mind drifted above the ice, observing rather than participating.

"Talk to your wings!"

I called out positions automatically, my voice echoing in the cavernous arena. The words were empty.

During a water break, TJ skated past, bumping my shoulder. "You planning on joining us today, or are you just renting ice space?"

I squirted water into my mouth, not bothering to answer.

Pike kept his distance during drills, but I couldn't escape his attention. It was like a spotlight trained on me. His concern was unmistakable.

By the end of practice, the team had adjusted to my silence, flowing around it like a stream's water moving around a stone. I wasn't the only one who had bad days. They'd forget by tomorrow, and I'd find the energy to be the Carver they expected—loud, biting, present.

The locker room emptied in stages—first the rookies with their eagerness to please, then the veterans with girlfriends and families waiting. I moved slowly and deliberately, stretching each task.

I'd nearly convinced myself I was alone when a shadow fell across my stall.

"You planning to spend the night here?" Pike's voice was quieter than usual.

I glanced up. He stood with one shoulder pressed against the row of lockers, already showered and changed into jeans and a faded blue henley. His damp hair curled at his temples.

"Organizing," I said, gesturing vaguely at my gear.

"Right. Did you sit through a lesson from Marie Kondo?"

Despite everything, his question amused me.

"Did you need something?"

Pike pushed off from the lockers and dropped onto the bench beside me, close enough for me to smell the clean scent of his soap. "You're not okay. That's obvious."

"Christ, Pike. Not now." The edge in my voice was reflexive, a cornered animal's warning.

Pike didn't flinch. He sat there, patient, watching.

The silence stretched between us until it snapped something in my chest.

"What do you want me to say? That I'm having a shitty day? That I'd like five minutes without someone needing something from me?"

"I don't need anything," Pike's voice was so gentle that it started sneaking past my defenses. "I only thought... maybe you shouldn't be alone with whatever this is."

The simple truth hollowed me out. I stared at my hands—callused, scarred, the knuckles still red from gripping the railing by the falls.

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